Chapter 3 - THE CODE RED IN THE ER
The pediatric resuscitation bay was a blur of bright stainless steel, blue plastic gowns, and the sharp, high-pitched beeping of monitors.
They had pushed Brandon and me back behind a thin yellow curtain, but I could see through the gap. Four nurses and a resident were gathered around Luke’s small body. They had already stripped off his white, ironed shirt, replacing it with a tiny gown that looked far too large for him. A plastic oxygen mask was strapped over his face, misting with every shallow, mechanical breath he took.
“He’s in supraventricular tachycardia,” a female doctor with a sharp, authoritative voice said, her fingers flying over Luke’s neck to check his pulse. “Heart rate is two hundred and ten. We need to access a vein immediately. Give me a pediatric crash cart and prepare adenosine.”
“No,” I stepped forward, pushing past the nurse who tried to hold me back. My training as a clinical researcher kicked in, overriding the panic of a mother. “Don't use adenosine yet. He has a history of mild reactive airway disease. If you give him adenosine, you could trigger a severe bronchospasm that will close his airway completely.”
The doctor paused, her eyes snapping to mine over her blue mask. She took in my disheveled hair, my tear-stained face, and the dry blackberry syrup stained on my hands. But she also recognized the clinical accuracy of my words.
“Are you a medical professional?” she asked.
“I’m a senior research biologist at the university clinic,” I said, my voice steadying. “Luke has a mild reactive airway. His chest pain started after a severe psychological shock. His heart rate spiked instantly. I believe this is a stress-induced catecholamine surge leading to SVT, but his lungs are already compromised.”
The doctor nodded once, a rapid, professional acknowledgment. “Understood. Change of plan. Let's try vagal maneuvers first. Get some ice. We’re going to ice his face to trigger the mammalian dive reflex.”
A nurse immediately brought a plastic bag filled with crushed ice and water. The doctor placed it gently but firmly over Luke’s forehead and nose, holding it there for fifteen agonizing seconds.
On the monitor, the jagged red line of his heart rate began to shift.
Two hundred... one hundred and eighty... one hundred and forty.
With a sudden, sharp gasp, Luke’s eyes flew open under the oxygen mask. He let out a loud, healthy cry—the most beautiful sound I had ever heard in my life. The monitor settled into a steady, rhythmic beep at one hundred and ten.
“Sinus rhythm restored,” the resident let out a long breath, stepping back from the table. “Good call on the airway history, Mom. You saved us a very difficult intubation.”
I felt Brandon’s arms wrap around me from behind, his body shaking with a silent, massive sob of relief. I leaned back against him, my legs turning to jelly as the adrenaline began to leave my system.
We were allowed to sit on the small plastic stools beside Luke’s bed while they started an IV drip to replenish his fluids. He was resting now, his breathing deep and even, his tiny hand holding onto my thumb with a surprisingly tight grip.
“He’s stable,” the lead physician, whose badge read Dr. Elena Vance (no relation to Brandon’s family, though the irony was not lost on me), said as she pulled a stool over to our side. “But we’re going to keep him overnight for observation. His troponin levels—the enzymes that indicate cardiac stress—are slightly elevated. We need to run a full genetic and metabolic panel to ensure there isn't an underlying cardiomyopathy that was triggered by the emotional distress.”
“A genetic panel?” Brandon asked, his brow furrowing. “Is that standard for a stress-induced episode?”
“Ordinarily, no,” Dr. Vance said, her eyes shifting between Brandon and me with a quiet, professional curiosity. “But when we did his baseline blood work, we noticed something unusual. Luke’s blood type is O-negative. That’s a very rare universal donor type.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “I’m O-negative. I’ve always known he inherited it from me.”
“That’s normal,” Dr. Vance said, her voice dropping into a lower, more cautious register. “But according to the intake forms you filled out, Brandon, your blood type is AB-positive.”
The room went completely, dead silent.
I felt the air freeze in my throat. I looked at Brandon. He was staring at the doctor, his mouth slightly open, his face completely blank as if he were trying to translate a language he had never heard before.
May you like
“I... yes,” Brandon stammered. “I’m AB-positive. I donate blood at the office drives every year.”
Dr. Vance looked down at her tablet, her fingers tapping the glass with a slow, hesitant rhythm. “Mr. Vance... medically speaking, an AB-positive parent cannot biologically produce an O-negative child. It is genetically impossible.”
